


Maelstrom

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last of the grandchildren of Finwe make their stand. Maglor takes up his sword. Galadriel goes to Earwen of Alqualonde.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maelstrom

He had tried telling her that it would be folly. She had been young and blinded by the regard she bore the widowed Noldorán. The words of caution spoken by those she called kin had been in vain.

“Who is she?” asked the young messenger from Alqualondë who had come bearing a message from Eärwen.

“Indis the Vanya,” Ingwë said quietly as he continued gazing at the portrait of the woman who had contented herself with another’s leavings. “She was my kinswoman.”

“Finwë’s second wife!” the lad exclaimed. 

Ingwë found the youth compelling. Too long had the High-King of Valinor shared the company of those whose motives were obscured and secrets hidden. The young man before him now did nothing to hide curiosity and ignorance. 

“I am Sylvan,” said the young man. “My parents did not teach me lore, for they are simple folk of the woods.”

“Would that we were all Sylvan!” muttered Ingwë, casting his eyes once again to the gilded portrait. 

“Is she still in Tirion?” the young Sylvan asked, his voice coloured by awe as he gazed upon the features of the beautiful woman in the painting.

Ingwë did not answer, being swept back along the alleys of memory to that day. There had been a summons from Nienna to Formenos, not long after the Exodus of the Noldor. He had gone with Eönwë. The northern city was deserted. 

“The stones,” Eönwë had said in a hushed tone. “Dried blood on the stones.”

“We must go in,” Ingwë had told his companion, trying to shove his memories away. “Nienna waits.”

“A moment,” Eönwë had murmured, pushing aside overgrown bushes that cluttered the path leading to the stables. There was a strained undertone to his voice that did not sit well with Ingwë. He made no move to follow the Maia down the path, instead staying where he was. 

“Ingwë!”

Eönwë’s horrified voice brooked no hesitance and Ingwë rushed down the trail. Eönwë was staring at handprints on the stable walls. Handprints marked by blood. Finwë had died in the mansion. There were no other lives taken by Morgoth that day. What did this mean then?

“Whoever it was, he must have been in pain,” Eönwë was saying. “The wounds were not life-threatening, but they were deep perhaps. What caused the wounds?”

Ingwë placed his palm over the handprint on the wall where the injured man had tried to brace himself. His fingers were long, but the fingerprints exceeded them in length. 

“We must see Nienna,” he told a worried Eönwë, his voice betraying not what he had discerned.

They had made their way to the terraced courtyard where by the statue of Míriel Serindë stood Nienna, her features obscured by a mourning veil. Eönwë moved to pay obeisance. But Ingwë had stiffened, uttered a sharp cry and rushed to kneel by the huddle of black garments that absorbed crimson and covered death. 

“Indis! How?” Eönwë had demanded of Nienna. 

Nienna told them what had happened. Indis had slit her wrist with a knife made by her step-son. In her pain, she had called to the Valar. Nienna had come. Only Nienna had come, Ingwë reflected bitterly. 

Indis had chosen to do it in deserted Formenos, away from the eyes of the world. She had been recovering in Lórien, where Ingwë had escorted her to. He had hoped that Irmo’s dreams and Estë’s gentleness would heal his kinswoman’s spirit. How had Indis left Lórien? How had she reached here? He slipped his fingers into Indis’s golden hair and stroked the cold scalp of his kinswoman.

A cold wind had blown from the East. The clouds shifted then and the shadow of Míriel’s statue had fallen on the corpse.

 

Gildor watched in rising concern as Thranduil subjected his still convalescent body to the strain of a warrior’s training. Círdan and Glorfindel had tried dissuading Thranduil. But as Gildor knew from experience, Thranduil was used to getting his way.

Now, Thranduil had finally stopped and was trying to even his harsh breathing. 

“Well?” Elrond asked from across the deck. 

“More carnal activities required if my body is to accustom itself to these strains,” Thranduil proclaimed, throwing a meaningful glance at Gildor when he had said the word ‘carnal’.

“You will not endanger your health until we are on land,” Glorfindel said sternly. 

Thranduil’s long fingers ran down the length of the sword he held until they came to rest at the hilt. He sighed and said quietly, his green eyes darkening in reminiscence, “Lord Celebrimbor made this for me. At my father’s request. It has never let me down, even when I killed the man who made it.”

Glorfindel cleared his throat. Elrond had stepped forth and was now glancing at Gildor in concern. Gildor knew he had paled. He remembered only the vaguest details of his rescue. Thranduil had never told him and he had never dared ask. He could not bring himself to ask, not when Thranduil had chosen not to enquire about what had transpired in Isengard. 

“I knew a man once,” Glorfindel said uncomfortably. “He was a smith. He used to say that smiths never regret their craft even if the craft turns to be their undoing at the end.”

“It was true enough for Prince Celebrimbor,” Círdan remarked. “I did not know anyone more generous to a fault.”

“My father did not like him,” Thranduil interjected.

“They respected each other. Neither your father nor Celebrimbor were men who were easily provoked.” Círdan cast Elrond a knowing glance. Elrond simply huffed and threw a glare at Galadriel who was conversing with Thalion further down the deck.

“I did not know him well,” Gildor said wistfully. “He was kind, I remember. He used to gift me wooden toys when I was young. And he crafted a sword and a suit of armour for me when I came of age. I lost both in the War of Wrath. Gil told me to ask Celebrimbor for another sword. But I did not. He was aloof, I feared, and they said he hated family associations.”

“He was inured to my virginal charms,” spoke up Thranduil feigning deep sorrow. 

“He did not prefer men,” Glorfindel chuckled. “Perhaps it was the influence of the sheltered family circles he moved in.”

“I hardly can call Galadriel a sheltering influence,” Elrond cut in. “Or were there more to the tales of their mutual attraction?”

“She is not fickle, Elrond,” Thranduil said quietly. “I am her husband’s kinsman and bound to support him. But even I cannot deny that her loyalty runs deeper than his.”

“With my parents it was the other way perhaps,” Elrond hesitated, looking down at the sea form that reminded him of his brother. “I did not mourn them. Perhaps I am a hypocrite when I accuse Galadriel of having no conscience.”

“Eärendil was a good man,” Círdan broke the silence that had fallen. “He would have returned to find you if he had been permitted.”

“Then I am glad that he was not allowed to return,” said Elrond firmly, his eyes shining in earnest. 

“There was a council,” Gildor said uncomfortably. “Celebrimbor and Galadriel advised Gil to not succour your brother and you. Galadriel was determined.”

“Perhaps she knew that we craved a home.” Elrond sighed and shook his head. “They were there, you know, every time we needed them. Lord Maedhros used to travel far and wide to find coal for us in the winter. Ada did not like being parted from his brother. He would fret so until Lord Maedhros returned. But he would bear the parting again and again when they had to take turns with the patrols and keeping an eye on us. Home was not a roof and walls. It was knowing that there would be someone who shouted at you, who forced you to do things you did not care to - Ada was a man unused to children and he was a harsh taskmaster at times. But he did what he could and beyond what he could.”

A sharp hitch of breathing from behind made Elrond stop and he turned to find a pale-faced Erestor. Elrond had never spoken of Maglor after realising that it unsettled Erestor to hear of a man who had given another’s son what he had not given the fruit of his loins. 

“He did not know,” Círdan said quietly. “I profess no love for Maglor Fëanorion, for as Elrond said, he was harsh more often than not. But he was a just man. He did not know of your conception until he was away from my lands and in the mountains of Lindon with his brother.” Círdan cleared his throat and looked away. “Lord Maedhros was dying. Maglor had to stay with him. The war ended, the jewels were taken. He did not recover from his brother’s death.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed and Thranduil stepped forth to his friend’s side in silent support. 

“The death of a brother cannot overweigh a man’s love for his children,” Erestor said quietly. “That I have witnessed in war and life.”

Glorfindel shifted uneasily. Círdan cleared his throat again and replied, “Perhaps it is something that only he can answer. I dare not speculate.”

“Why now?” Erestor asked finally. “Why do you tell me this now?”

To that, Círdan had no answer.

 

 

“Nerdanel?” 

She turned to find Finarfin. The streets of Tirion were milling with people. Impatience and expectation hung heavy in the air.

“Have you wondered why it is that those who remain are left to grieve without a balm in sight?” she asked him bitterly.

“Perhaps it is because cowards deserve nothing,” he replied, his blue eyes shadowed by memory. 

“Ingwë will not lead his armies into war and kinslaying,” she remarked, closing the old wound that would gain them no end now.

“But his son will.” Finarfin shook his head. “They have been estranged, Ingwë and his son, ever since the death of Ingwë’s granddaughter. The messengers from Ingwë’s court indicate that he will abdicate if Manwë asks him to lead the armies. We must fear Ingwion. He is a formidable adversary on the battlefield.”

“He is the least of our obstacles. There will be many commanders from the ranks of the Maiar. Tulkas and Oromë shall wield their might. The wind and the earth will be against us. But I believe in my son.”

“Macalaurë is a brilliant warrior. But even he cannot match the might of the Gods,” Finarfin said bleakly. 

“I was not speaking of Macalaurë.” Her voice was strained and Finarfin’s eyes widened in realisation. 

 

 

“Darkness.”

“Torches.”

“Darkness,” she insisted. “I am not growing any younger.”

“Torches,” he said firmly and drew her to the bed with him. “Nor am I.”

“No, but you remain the eternal defiance to the ravages of time,” she muttered. “How do you achieve it?”

“You and I are of the Eldar. Time does not affect our beauty,” he replied teasingly. “Or did you forsake your immortality for the sake of a handsome Edain stripling when I failed to pay notice?”

“That happens only when you have Sindarin blood in your veins,” she said haughtily and she could feel a tug at her heart when his lips curved on her cheek. She knew the feel of his smile on her skin. “My folly starts and ends with you.”

“Idril Celebrindal did embrace Lúthien’s folly,” he remarked, enjoying the verbal jousts that would eventually lead to more intimate pleasures.

Upon the mention of Idril’s name, she stiffened under him. Surprised and wary, he asked, “You did not broker their marriage, I hope?”

“I did not,” she replied curtly.

Yet there was something hidden under her sharp tones that stirred his suspicions. He kissed her with the slow, lingering perfection that came with long years of practise and wondered if he dared ask more. She sighed as he broke the kiss and her fingers came to cradle his face. He craned to press his lips into the palm of her hand. And when the cold metal on her ring finger brushed against his skin, he knew it was a portent.

“Tell me,” he whispered. 

“Are you not worried that it might disrupt our current regard?”

She could feel his eyebrows furrowing against her skin and then he spoke. “Our regard is not current. I do loathe it when you speak of it in terms insinuating transience.”

“Transience has been a feature of our regard, you cannot deny.” She laughed shakily when he bit down on her nose. 

He knew her well. She would stall and hesitate in a bid to make him drop the matter. 

“Tell me then. What of Idril?”

“Faramir of Gondor is a wise man,” she said then. 

He wondered why Faramir’s name had cropped up in the conversation. Her eyes were stark blue now, blue as the summer skies of Beleriand had been. He kissed her brow and settled himself against the headboard. She came easily enough when he pulled her into his lap. They lay there, his fingers idly stroking her hair and occasionally straying down to map her visage.

“He insisted on repaying a debt of life,” she elaborated. 

“If I possessed your wisdom to untangle the devious workings of your mind, I would have been a less happy man, I daresay.” He pinched her cheek and she shot him a tentative smile that did not belie her worry.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “and we will test if I am as fickle as they say I am.”

“It might be a test for you, but it is trial by fire for me,” she muttered. 

“Altáriel,” he insisted. 

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and gave in.

 

“Itarillë,” her eldest cousin had said thoughtfully.

“What of her?” she had enquired.

“She has not forgiven Telpë.”

“I have not forgiven my father, Maitimo.”

“It is not the same thing,” he had murmured.

 

“You will desist slipping in your fingers into my mouth when I am regaling you with tales of my uneventful past, my dear silver tree.”

“Why had she a grudge against Celebrimbor?” 

“That he was the inadvertent cause of her mother’s death might have been a reason. To be truthful, she did not like him. Perhaps it was because we doted on him more. He was everything she wanted to be, I think.”

“I have heard that her mother died on the Ice,” Celeborn said hesitantly. Her features tautened and she nodded before drawing his fingers into her mouth again, striving to chase off memories by sensation.

“What did she do?” he asked. 

“She killed her husband, sailed east and formed an alliance with the Abhorred. She was brilliant. Inherited Turkáno’s faculty for numbers and Elenwë’s ease with languages and lore. She soon excelled at sorcery and Sauron could not shove her aside and crush her as he had done with others. Eregion was not his quest to make Rings, I daresay. He already knew the art. He had been apprentice to both Morgoth and Aulë, after all. Eregion was for destroying a man at the bidding of Sauron’s most powerful ally.”

His fingers stilled in their quest along her nose and their eyes met. He had remained in Lothlórien during the time and had with difficulty convinced her to spend the season there. He had been jealous, frankly, when Celebrimbor had sent a note imploring her to join him in Eregion.

“I-” he began and faltered. 

“No.” She shrugged. “You did not know. I did not know either. It was only after Lord Narvi sent a message that I knew of Sauron’s motives. Even then, I had not suspected Idril’s involvement. I had known she was alive. But I had not known anything else.”

“How then did you find her hand in his fall?” 

“Misfortune is the mother of wisdom,” she said quietly, her eyes coming to hold his own before shying away. “You spoke to me of my nephew’s continued existence one day. You said that Saruman told you. And you said he had been one of those abominations that had-”

He kissed her desperately before she voiced the rest of the sentence. Carding his fingers into her hair, pulling her to him so that not an inch of space remained unoccupied between them, convexing into her concavity, he spoke those words he had never had the courage to do before.

“I had often contemplated suicide - when I woke at nights reliving those words.”

“Saruman told you. He was under Sauron’s sway after coming to Isengard. I believe that a journey into Umbar which he made during the fading years of Eärnil’s rein brought him under Idril’s sorcery. Telpë-” she shook her head and continued quietly, “Celebrimbor was captured and taken to Idril, I am sure. Sauron did not take prisoners. He left that to his allies. Minas Morgul and Umbar had prisoners, but not Barad-dûr. Perhaps he had tired of his torturer days under Morgoth.”

He did not interrupt her. She needed to speak. “There were rumours. Erestor told me before the White Council that Mithrandir had found proof in Dol Guldur that Celebrimbor was alive. Perhaps Thrain told him. The Naugrim were ever Telpë’s friends. Erestor suspected Saruman’s hand in it. But I did not think further, attributing it to his intense prejudice against the Maia. Then Gildor was captured and Thranduil did what he had to.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at her companion. “He did not deserve it. I deserve it. Maitimo deserved it. Turkáno deserved it. Damn it all, Findekano deserved it! But not Telpë. Telpë should have been spared.” 

The old tongue - her mother-tongue. She would lapse into it when she was moved beyond another’s comprehension. He had never seen her mourning her kin. When Finrod had died in Tol Sirion, she had sought Melian’s succour. When the massacre in Doriath had happened, she had her cousins and Oropher. When Maedhros had died, she had rushed to Celebrimbor. 

“Idril sent him to Isengard - to Saruman, who experimented his cross-breeding science on him. It must have been the ideal revenge to see me ravaged by the creature that had been my dearest friend. Yet Saruman faltered and told you of the secret. I can only suspect Sauron’s hand in it. Abhorred he was and I loathed everything he represented. But I cannot say in good conscience that he wanted to destroy Telpë. Indeed, when I was in Eregion, I had often seen Sauron going out of his way to make clumsy amends to the man he would doom.”

Celeborn did not know what to make of the last statement. Sauron had been the Abhorred. He had been malice given shape. Perhaps Galadriel was trying to justify herself through justifying another who had killed.

“Idril Celebrindal is in Umbar?”

“Was. As I said earlier, Faramir of Gondor is a wise man. I took him into confidence. He knew men of the Corsairs. After all they are kin, the Westërnesse of Gondor and the Black Númenóreans across the Pelagrir. He was able to enact the task I had entrusted him with. Before we set sail from Mithlond, I received a message from him indicating that it had been done. ”

She fell silent and pulled away from him, her eyes daring him to scorn her. 

“No, you have not escaped my regard yet. We shall make the best of it.”

She wrinkled her brow in consternation and he continued speaking, “Sindarin myths speak of a snake devouring its own tail thus forming a circle. Perhaps we are that.”

 

“I abdicate in favour of my son and heir.”

Ingwë knelt before the Lord of the Valar and placed his crown at Manwë’s feet. “I possess neither strength nor courage to lift sword against those who are kin, milord. I beg you to free me.”

“You can abdicate when it overwhelms you,” Manwë said quietly. “Have you wondered what I would do?”

 

“This is it then,” Maglor Fëanorion said uneasily as he stood before the mirror slipping in the links of his armour. 

“It is not the first time you have addressed a gathering,” Carnilótë replied as she drew his hair away from his face. 

He nodded and waited until she was done. Then he turned and kissed her brow chastely before walking out to the terrace that overlooked the courtyard square where was gathered teeming hundreds of the Noldor. 

Carnilótë watched as he began speaking, his voice uncertain and hesitant at first and then gradually easing to confidence. He was not his eloquent brother who had revelled in public oration. Nor was he his impetuously brilliant father. But he was a minstrel, a poet and a craftsman of words. 

“My family promised you lands where flowed milk and honey. They spoke of yokes broken and freedom gained. What did we gain? The veils of mourning for our women and corpses of our men! Why was it so? Did not one of you wonder? We had brilliance, we had weapons, we had fire in our hearts. Yet we failed. Why was it so? There!” He pointed at the steep rise of Taniquetil etched against the clouded skies. “They doomed us, they hunted us and they left us nothing. Think you it was not so? Think you they were generous?” He brought a hand to his heart and continued fiercely, “Then you did not see my father burning into ashes. Then you did not see the eagles bearing Nolofinwë’s corpse. You did not see my cousins and brothers falling as they defended what was ours. What did Taniquetil do? Nothing? No, unmoving silence as was promised in the Prophecy of the North would have been bearable. They hunted us, even in our dreams and destroyed our minds! They drove us mad and took away everything. Now we stand on the precipice again. They intend to destroy my cousin - my cousin who has brought down Sauron by her endurance and courage. Will we allow that? Will we allow them to win again? Heed your answer! I am not those who came before me. I cannot lead you to greatness. I cannot be the selfless leader those before me were. My grievances are private. So are yours - each one of you has grudges nursed in your heart - secret and unspoken. Let it be so. I ask for neither allegiance nor alliance. I ask only that you be truthful to yourself. That is how I have lived all my life. Own the truth to yourself. Will you allow them to take away our last chance at throwing off the yoke? Will you hand them the chains and stand before them meek and tame while they bind you? Will you submit to idol worship and meaningless veneration of what are mere instruments of Eru - instruments as you and I are? Answer me! Will you be blind, deaf and helpless once again? I will fight to protect what I have left. And what of you? They feared us once and not without reason. Once again. Once again, I tell you, one last time! Stand with me! Fight with me! For what we have left to defend!” 

Carnilótë swallowed as she regarded the panting form before her. There was silence in the square; silence broken only by the fast breathing of the man who had fervently spoken.

“I will fight for my daughter.” Carnilótë heard the sharp slicing through the air as Finarfin drew out his sword. 

This must have been how it had happened eons ago, when Fëanor had excited his people into rebellion and exodus, Carnilótë thought in rising awe, her heart thudding and sweat breaking on her brow. Swords rose gleaming in the soft rays of dusk, professing fealty to the hearts of men that gripped them. She reflected, not for the first time in her life, that everything happened in circles. Circles. Life embraced circles whether one willed it or not.

 

"A circle, milord?" she had asked her husband's brother in bewilderment as they discussed the geometry of Arda.

"A circle indeed," he had said pensively. "Place a circle on another. And one more circle atop that. As you do it, you see that you get a spiral. Landmasses, people, beliefs, lives - they are all circles, milady. They form spirals, unending and beyond our limits of comprehension."

 

And Maglor spoke.

“Once again! One last time! We defend what is not lost!”

* * *

“I have misgivings,” he said quietly. “Artanis shall not succumb. She will be slain.”

His companion did not cease her task and her nimble fingers spun rich hues of fate that not even the wisest could fully comprehend. But she nodded acknowledgement to his words and he took that as silent assent to continue.

“I fear, Vairë.”

He shook his head on hearing the words that had escaped him. He was the lord of timeless halls. Before him Kings and Wizards had come to beg only to be spurned. He was the Doomsayer, the wielder of life’s scythe and the unbiased judge. Did he know fear? 

“Nienna’s death was caused by her absorption in the miseries of the lesser kindred that she had always mourned,” he continued slowly. “Or so we have concluded.”

Vairë’s fingers trembled, but she did not speak. Even Death needed a silent confessor.

“Yet,” he ruminated, “I cannot believe it was so. She was steadfast in her lamentation for the fall of Melkor. Why would she be affected adversely by her mourning now when it had never been so before?”

“It is not right.” He began in frustration, glaring at those swirling hues that held the secret to what would come after. “Nienna is dead. Ulmo shall have no part in this. Nerdanel has always had Aulë’s support. Eärwen of Alqualondë has forgiven her daughter. Eönwë has persuaded Ingwë to abdicate.”

“Manwë should have judged Macalaurë when the Prince broke his oath of silence,” Vairë said thoughtfully. “The Prince has now rallied his people in Tirion. If we had dealt with him sooner, this would not have happened.”

“Nerdanel offered the Silmaril borne by Eärendil,” he said tersely.

“Why does Manwë covet the Silmarilli?” she mused.

He hesitated, but spoke. “Fëanáro’s soul. The pure fire of Miriel Serinde. Flame Imperishable. Who among us have not coveted the Flame? The jewel should not have returned to Valinor.”

“Yet it did. Elwing’s folly, they say,” Vairë said. “If she had surrendered the jewel to them-”

“If she had done that,” he cut in wearily, “she would still be alive. The jewel was pure and would bear no tainted touch. She was not pure of heart. She was burned by the Silmaril.”

Vairë absorbed his words in silence. Then she said, “If she had done that, the sons of Fëanáro would have lapsed into ambition and tyranny. Her taint saved Arda from a dire fate.”

“What is to say that no such fate lingers over us now?”

“This is a mere uprising of men stirred by old grudges and Macalaurë’s fiery words. It heralds nothing. When he is quelled and when Artanis is brought to the Máhanaxar for judgement, all shall be the same again. They achieved nothing when they were at their mightiest. Now they are fading shadows of what they once were. Why need we fear them?”

He shook his head. He was Námo. Instinct had no place in deciding his actions. But instinct refused to sleep now.

 

“Why have you apprenticed yourself to Melkor?” he had asked Mairon.

“It was necessary, milord,” had been the quiet reply.

It had taken everyone by surprise. They spoke of Mairon’s fiery ambition to surpass the Valar. Perhaps that ambition had spurred him to join Melkor in the forge. Námo had not thought more of it. Then, on one of his rare forays to the lands of Aulë, he had happened to see Mairon standing alone in the midst of a turnip field. They had greeted each other and Námo had asked.

“Necessary?” 

Mairon’s features betrayed no emotion as he said, “Indeed.”

Then years had passed and Nelyafinwë was standing before a chasm. 

“Finally you repent?” Námo had demanded.

“Repent?” Nelyafinwë’s amused tendrils of thought brushed his mind. “Milord, I would phrase that differently. Finally, it begins.”

The Prince was mad. Námo had never doubted that. But before he had replied, his mind was assaulted by white fire that pervaded his thoughts with skeins of the past.

 

Laurefindë was sleeping in a luxurious bed, his handsome features arranged into blissful contentment that came only with love. Hands, trembling and pale, hovered over the length of Laurefindë’s throat. 

Then there was a snarl of despair and the hands fell away. 

“I cannot kill you to save you,” a wretched voice spoke. “But I can sell mine to spare you yours. Some, after all, have not even this choice. Alas! Choices are not choices.” 

 

 

The white fire of memories burned away leaving Námo with the scion of Finwe. 

“Mairon,” Námo murmured.

“It is but the beginning, milord,” Nelyafinwë had said then, those eyes holding hellfire and rockfast resolution. “Tears unnumbered shall you shed.”

“That is your doom,” Námo said harshly.

“And now it shall be yours, Námo. The golden rule - that of reciprocity. Do unto others as was done unto you.”

“Mocking the Gods in the face of death is not courage,” Námo warned him. “It is folly. Now you stand heirless and cursed, having lost all you had.”

“I shall not lose what is mine.”

Námo had turned involuntarily to regard the grieving brother who knelt by the chasm imploring the Prince to abandon this folly.

 

“Námo.” Vairë interrupted his thoughts. “The horn of Oromë calls for battle.”

“The wars of the living are not my concern,” Námo said quietly. “I will call the dead when it is time.” 

 

Ingwë watched from his tower as the procession of the new King of Valmar wound its way through the city streets. Some of the most loyal supporters of Ingwë had refrained from attending the festivities of coronation. 

“I had never thought that this would come to pass,” he told his companion who had ridden west to join him.

“I suppose it was an inevitable conclusion,” said Eönwë. “Artanis has honourably discharged her end of the bargain.”

“Manwë’s advisors say that he is not opposed to let her walk on these shores,” Ingwë remarked. “He wants her to abandon the cause of gaining pardon for her kinsmen. She will settle for nothing but the erasure of the Prophecy of the North.”

“Perhaps Olórin could negotiate,” Eönwë said thoughtfully. “He is ever opposed to bloodshed.”

“As was Curunír!” Ingwë turned to face his friend. “Yet what happened? Curunír joined forces with Mairon in the last battle! A young Sylvan soldier who came from Eärwen’s lands told me that many of his kin were taken captive by Curunír who then turned them into foul beings by sorcery and breeding!”

“Curunír was bewitched, they say.”

“A Maia bewitched?” Ingwë asked sardonically. “Will you be saying that Moringotto was bewitched too?”

“Come with me to Tirion,” Eönwë entreated. “You have nothing left in Valmar.”

“I wished to see my son,” Ingwë said quietly. “I have not seen him in many years. He reminds me of my poor granddaughter. Her son is aboard the ship, Eönwë. I would do anything to see him spared.”

The tower shook then and Ingwë threw his hand out to catch the lamp bracketed on the wall. Oil drenched his fingers as the lamp slipped out of his hold and broke at his feet. The tower shook again and Ingwë saw in rising horror there were cracks emerging in the stone. He braced himself against the wall and his oily palm left its imprint on the smooth whiteness of the wall. It reminded him of blood on a stable wall in Formenos.

Lightning flashed above the Pelori ranges and the horn of Oromë preceded thunder. Eönwë gripped his friend’s shoulder and pulled him away from the exposed balcony.

“The wrath of the Gods.”

 

 

“Milady.” 

Celebrían bowed before the Queen of Alqualondë.

“The Teleri nurse blood grudges, Celebrían,” Eärwen said simply. “My warriors will not fight with the Noldorin armies.” 

“In Middle-Earth, the Naugrim and the Quendi had deep dislike for each other. But Celebrimbor and Narvi put those prejudices to shame.”

“This is not Middle-Earth. This is where it all began.”

“Prejudice is the same thing everywhere,” Celebrían said staunchly.

“We, the Teleri, have never interfered in the concerns of the Gods. We are a simple folk, content with our ships and the sea. Swords shall not be drawn in these lands again.” 

“Neither will you aid the Valar?” Celebrían asked.

Eärwen’s face betrayed the smallest fraction of turmoil as she glanced east to the sea. Then she whispered, “I was a daughter and a mother before I became the Queen. You may remain assured of my neutrality.”

“My mother will return,” Celebrían declared as if by rote. It was her cause. She would see Galadriel saved as she had once saved Maglor. She did not know how. But she would.

Eärwen turned ashen-faced and bade her leave. 

Celebrían took a deep breath as she exited the palace quarters. Melian waited patiently beside the large iron-wrought gate. The gate had been made by the craftsmen of Tirion in days when there had existed friendship between the Noldor and the Teleri.

“Oh, how it moves in circles!” Celebrían exclaimed when she joined Melian. “Eärwen must choose between daughter and people, as my mother had to do once.” 

“Choices are no choices, Celebrían,” Melian said pensively, her eyes cast to the skies. “Storm brews in Taniquetil. The tower of Ingwë stands alone. Can you and I weather the storm, Celebrían?”

“Pray, cease these vague words. I have tired of them from all quarters. We must act, Melian. If we cannot gain Eärwen’s endorsement of our cause, we simply must seek another opening.”

Melian’s face flashed with a sliver of amusement and she asked, “You are not planning to recruit an army behind Eärwen’s back, I hope?”

Celebrían stopped walking and faced her companion. “Do you know anyone among the Maiar who might be budged? Persuaded? Coerced?”

“Seduced?” Melian asked dryly.

“You cannot jest!” Celebrían waved her hand angrily at the sea. “Everything is at stake, Melian!” 

“My dear woman,” Melian remarked, “what makes you think that I have not done all that I can?”

“I am afraid,” Celebrían enhanced her words with a Sindarin curse that brought a wistful smile to Melian’s lips. “She deserves to live. She has toiled for so long, Melian. So long. I want her to find peace with Ada.”

“Peace is an elusive find,” Melian replied, her voice low. “It eludes even dreams.”

 

 

“Why do I need the Silmaril?” Manwë asked the woman who was his spouse. 

She gazed upon the fluttering white flags of their host and suppressed a flinch before turning to face her husband.

“I wonder why,” she replied obediently.

“I need the Flame to reforge your heart.” He fingered the golden curls of her hair and pulled one taut before kissing it with reverence. She had stiffened on hearing his words. “I need you to forget him. I want you as you have always had me.”

 

“We shall never have your pity, My Lady,” Maedhros had said wearily. “Not after all that you have wrought on our family.”

“I come with no pity. I come with grief. Much has been destroyed by that was not your fault. I come to make amends as I can,” she replied, daring to extend her hand to the Prince. “Will you accept my reparation?”

“I am dying, and I will soon join Melkor in the Void,” he said matter-of-factly even as Maglor flinched at his tone. “I would be, of course, honoured to convey a message if you wish.”

She gasped and took a step backward, but then recovered her equanimity as she spoke. “I will do all that is in my power to save you from the eternal darkness, Prince Nelyafinwë.”

It was a lie. She knew that he was aware of that.

“It is too late, Varda,” he said quietly. “What is that you wished of me? If it is something that I can do, I will.”

Her features convulsed for the barest of moments before she spoke firmly. “The jewels must not return to Valinor. Claim them.”

“We intend to. Eönwë has spurned our messengers,” Maglor said angrily. “We will not relinquish our oath.”

“Hold, Macalaurë,” Maedhros said as his gaze met Varda’s. “There is more than a mere desire to make amends. Speak the truth, Lady. I will die ere dawn, but I will not die a fool.”

Varda sighed as she averted her gaze to her stars. Lies had never served her love. Would truth serve it? 

“He loved the light. He craved the light.” She spoke in a whisper as memories haloed her. “I would do this for him. I would bring the light into the darkness beyond the Door of the Night.”

The Prince knew to read between her lines. He had inherited his grandmother's wisdom, after all. His lips thinned. The Silmarilli held the Flame. Her husband would spare no effort to retrieve them, for he wanted to destroy the last stronghold of Melkor - Varda's heart. 

“If I claim the jewel and willingly embrace my death, thus carrying its light to the void where I shall be condemned to,” his voice remained as calm as it was whenever he engaged in diplomacy; but she could see the horror in his grey eyes, “then what shall you grant us?”

She wondered what he would ask. Then his lips curved into a pained smile. She could feel tendrils of his mind reaching out to convey what he needed. She met his eyes bravely, assenting to grant his request, her form shining with the love that she bore for the fallen Vala condemned to the Void. She did not speak, but Maedhros frowned and nodded, his eyes widening in understanding.

“Thus be it,” he said quietly as he bent to press his lips to her hand.

 

 

He had reclaimed the Silmarilli and averted Manwë's plans. But Varda had known that the Prince would claim more than she could give. Maglor was alive. Galadriel was alive. In them, she could sense the slow unveiling of the conjurer's plot.

“You have me.” She craned her neck to brush her husband's lips. “I chose you, after all.”

 

 

Greatest in strength and deeds of prowess was Tulkas, who is surnamed Astaldo, the Valiant. He came last to Arda, to aid the Valar in the first battles with Melkor. He delighted in wrestling and in contests of strength; and he rode no steed, for he could outrun all things that go on feet, and he was tireless. His hair and beard were golden, and his flesh ruddy; his weapons were his bare hands. He had little heed for either the past or the future, and was of no avail as a counsellor, but was a hardy friend. 

Maglor knew all that. His brother had taught him well in their youth. 

 

“He was beloved to Nienna, they say,” Maedhros had said softly when Maglor had been teaching Elros and Elrond the Valaquenta. 

“Then why were they estranged?” Elrond had asked. 

“Nienna saw too deep and grieved for what she saw. Tulkas lived each day as if it was his last. Incompatible,” Maedhros remarked, and then cast his brother a fleeting look of contentment. “But what was once between them lingers even now in his heart.”

 

Nienna was dead now. Would Tulkas fight or opt for neutrality as Ulmo had? Maglor frowned. He was walking on the deserted plains where there would be bloodshed on the morrow. The white flags of Valmar fluttered gently in the western breeze across the plains and he shook his head grimly before returning to his musings.

“There is more than one middle path, brother,” Maedhros had said when Maglor spoke of Southrons and their treachery. “That they aid us does not mean they will give us their all. Alliances are not allegiances.”

Tulkas would fight. But he would not give his all. Maglor smiled coldly and cast a disdainful glance as lightning cleaved the western skies. Then his smile vanished and he wondered about the meaning invested in each word his brother had spoken even in jest.

“Conjurers and their secrets,” he enunciated slowly, his eyes on the crimson disc slipping down the Pelori ranges.

“Even conjurers run out of secrets.”

The voice that had spoken was mighty and deep. Maglor turned to face the one who wielded the great horn, Valaróma.

“Oromë,” he greeted. “How fares the prospects of the chase?”

“It is a pity that so few are pitted against the juggernaut of the Valar,” Oromë replied calmly. “But you have always been devoted to your lost causes.”

Oromë was a mighty lord. If he was less strong than Tulkas, he was more dreadful in anger.  
He was a hunter of monsters and fell beasts, and he delighted in horses and in hounds; and all trees he loved.

Maglor let his thoughts wander through the hoarded memories of his past. 

 

“What are you thinking?” Maedhros had asked when Maglor stood before the Mithrim, gazing upon the clear expanse of the lake. 

It was before the great feast. Maglor could not let his brother out of his sight, not for the least fraction of an instant. He leant in subtly to savour the clean scent of his brother that was at stark variance to the stench which had been the legacy of Thangorodrim for very many days. His brother seemed to be in one of those rare moods that called for physical contact, for a companionable hand wound its way about Maglor’s arm. 

“Oromë led our people west. Over these lands,” Maglor replied pensively. “Now we have returned.”

“Well, we did not need Oromë’s guidance this time, brother.”

“Tyelko might have preferred Oromë’s aid,” Maglor remarked. 

“Oromë had a law that allowed a man to espouse any woman he chose, coerced or otherwise.” Maedhros cleared his throat. “More than one noblewoman was raped.” His voice hitched on the word and Maglor closed his eyes trying to stave off the rush of wrath in his blood as his mind relived the injuries he had wept over. His brother continued softly, “And then forced into the rigmarole of marriage by callous men.”

“The Sindarin lords are uncivilised, if they set store by those laws.”

“Oromë would slay those who disobeyed.” 

Maglor did not reply. He thought of Tyelko who was heavily influenced by Oromë’s teachings. 

“There is no enemy more dangerous than wilful prejudice,” Maedhros said pensively, those quicksilver eyes darkening with an indiscernible emotion. “Oromë symbolises that. How does one triumph over those who are deliberately blind?” 

 

“The conjurer’s bag of tricks has run out, you will find,” Oromë said quietly. “Dawn heralds your defeat.”

Maglor remembered the coronation of Finrod. He remembered Fingon’s moving lament. He remembered the desperation in Galadriel’s voice. And he remembered another voice raised in song - a voice most dear; every nuance and undertone of which was etched in his memory. He had been cursed with a vivid imagination; his father’s legacy. It came to him as cacophony and yet each strand was a different timbre he could distinguish. 

“Fear is understandable,” Oromë remarked, though not mockingly.

Maglor met those pitiless eyes squarely and raised his voice in song.

 

Spring follows winter, and the day follows night,  
Clouds cannot claim the sun, try as they might,  
For what is must come to light,  
The revenant sun shall shine bright.

* * *

* * *

Elrond skimmed through the scrolls Glorfindel had been perusing earlier. The Adûnaic Script. Númenor. His eyes grew distant as he lost himself to painful memories.

 

“They are arguing again,” his brother had said.

The children stood listening to the raised voices and the crash of objects thrown by their furious mother. 

“Why did they marry if they don’t like each other?” Elrond had asked.

“Perhaps he got her in the family way.” Elros was quick with his reply. 

 

Elrond smiled and shook his head as he imagined the twinkle in his brother’s eyes that could not be suppressed even when faced with the direst of tragedies. They had fled to the cave, on Elrond’s insistence, when the kinslayers had attacked their settlement. Elros had wanted to watch the fight. 

Elrond had often wondered how Elros could treat everyone the same. 

 

“Politics,” Elros had announced at breakfast one day. “I want to learn politics.”

“It is for verbose fools,” Maglor’s cutting voice had made Elrond smile. Their father hid a stubborn, loving heart beneath the cold exterior.

“I am a verbose fool,” Elros proclaimed. “Ada, you are always calling me a malingering gossip. Ask your brother. He will agree with me.”

Maedhros rarely spoke against his brother’s whim, something that everyone knew in the settlement and used to their advantage by trying to wheedle their way into Maglor’s good books - a futile endeavour, since few men on earth were as unmoved as Maglor by flattery and tears. 

“Lord Maedhros,” Elros appealed, all eagerness and wide, willing eyes. Elrond shared a wry look with Maglor. “You will teach me.”

Maedhros had gracefully waved his hand towards his brother and swiftly executed a clean escape from Elros’s pleading eyes. 

Elrond smirked and patted his brother’s hand in consolation. But later that night, as Elrond had been making his way back after helping a woman with childbirth, he had seen Maglor swimming in the small lake that was beside the settlement. He paused and stood watching, admiring the sharp strokes and the simple elegance that characterised everything Maglor did.

“The boy will make an excellent politician.”

Elrond craned his neck to see Maedhros seated on the shore, idly tracing patterns in the soil with his fingers.

Maglor did not reply, instead flipping over to swim on his back and gazing at the stars thoughtfully. 

“Let me make an offer,” Maedhros suggested, his voice holding equal depths of solemnity and amusement.

“None of your tricks on me,” Maglor protested half-heartedly. “I have not yet recovered from your last offer.”

“You had your revenge when you forced me to sit for that charcoal painting,” Maedhros pointed out, his voice taking on a petulant note of offended dignity.

Maglor chuckled saying, “Very well then. Let us hear this offer of yours.”

“I will teach the boy politics and you can teach me to swim.”

Maglor resumed his earlier technique of swimming on his stomach and watched his brother’s serene expression thoughtfully. 

“You have never agreed to that before,” he remarked.

“Perhaps I was saving to for an occasion to make leverage.”

“I will let you teach the boy anything you wish,” Maglor said quietly. “Without accepting the offer.”

Elrond had watched in surprise as Maedhros rose and disrobed before saying, “I wish to learn. Will you teach me as I once taught you?”

Maglor’s eyes had flashed with a strange emotion then and Elrond could not place it. Elrond had stood, watching silently, as Maglor led his brother into the water, guiding him as gently and surely as Maglor had guided Elrond and his brother when teaching them to swim. But this was different and Elrond could feel it in every bone of his body. The whispered words of instruction, the clasped hands, two pairs of eyes mirroring a yearning so inchoately painful that Elrond had to tear his gaze away. 

“Thank you,” Maedhros had murmured as they ended their swim.

“No, thank you.”

Maglor had clasped his brother’s cheeks and gazed into those silver eyes. Elrond flinched as he saw the yearning give away to bleak despair. Maglor must have seen it too, for he shook his head and initiated a kiss. Elrond had heard - no, felt - the sigh of quiet belonging that escaped Maedhros as his brother’s fingers ghosted over skin and hair. 

Elrond had then looked away. It explained everything, he realised - the deference Maedhros had always made to his brother’s whims, the wraith-like existence Maglor led when his brother was away, their ease with mutual proximity, their silent understanding of each other which served them well in battle and negotiations. Elrond had never heard Maedhros raising his voice in wrath. Neither had he heard Maglor swearing at his brother - and it was unusual since Maglor revelled in swearing and cursing.

 

Elrond was not a fool. Nor was he his brother. So he had kept his father’s secret. He knew that there was a wife and children. But he did not care. His experiences with women had left him a misogynist. He hated his mother, he hated Galadriel and he had hated every woman who crossed his path. 

 

“The death of a brother cannot overweigh a man’s love for his children,” Erestor said quietly. “That I have witnessed in war and life.”

Glorfindel shifted uneasily. Círdan cleared his throat again and replied, “Perhaps it is something that only he can answer. I dare not speculate.”

 

Glorfindel must have suspected. So must have Círdan and Galadriel. But nobody else did, Elrond was sure - not even Gil. Elrond mused ironically that the only secret he had from Erestor was the one that the latter had sought all his life.

When he returned to the scripts, grief consumed him again. He could identify Tar-Minastir’s flowing hand, the elegant cursive of Tar-Palantir, the arrogant scrawl of Tar-Ancalimë, the spidery hand of Tar-Calion - Ar-Pharazôn the Golden - as the King had named himself. 

Elrond had seen Pharazôn once in passing at Mithlond. It was as seeing Elros himself and Elrond had hastily opted out of his meeting with the prince, asking Galadriel to come in his stead. For once, Galadriel had not opposed him.

Now his hands traced the sharp curves of a hand he did not recognise. One of the advisors, perhaps.

 

“They say Isildur’s fever has not broken,” Pharazôn told me as he entered the chamber.

“Might in arms cannot rescue a man from sorcery, my King,” I replied. 

“Were you a sorcerer before you were a swordsman then?” he asked, curious as ever to know more about me.

 

Elrond stopped reading. His hands were trembling, he noticed absently. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the visuals of Celebrimbor suffering torment.

 

“Is Sauron mad?” Elros had once asked. 

“Why do you care?” Maglor had enquired none too pleased, his eyes fearfully flicking forth to where his brother was patiently teaching Elrond to read the old tongue. 

“I think only a madman can fall to the depths Sauron has fallen to,” Elros opined firmly.

Elrond looked up at his teacher who had stopped writing the conjugating sequences. He immediately wished that he had not. Maedhros had never lost his temper with the twins. Elros often tried to provoke him into wrath. Looking at Maedhros now, seeing the darkness in those usually serene grey eyes, Elrond could find no trace of the man who had melted in his brother’s embrace all those nights ago. 

 

Elrond dragged his thoughts away from the paradox who had been Maedhros Fëanorion. He had never understood his father’s brother. He had resigned himself to that. He rose and locked the door before returning to Sauron’s account.

 

“I was neither,” I said with unusual frankness, meeting Pharazôn’s gaze squarely. “I was a craftsman.”

The Rubicon had been crossed. We knew that instinctively. I offered a wry smile before turning to leave.

“It was her,” he called after me, his voice shaking with the mounting feelings of dismay, horror and anger in my mind that she would betray him so. But she had every right to. 

For a long moment, there was silence. Then I turned and met his miserable gaze. I had not thought that pity was any longer a part of my core. But I liked Pharazôn. It was a moot point. I liked Telpë and where had that brought him to?

“She is a noblewoman. You must be kind. There will be happiness, my King.” 

I spoke each word as if it had been dredged out of the chasm where my heart once was.

“Have you been in my situation?”he asked, his eyes earnest.

I suppressed a flinch and turned to leave. But he pre-empted me and came to grasp my shoulder, turning me around to face him.

“Have you?” he asked again, commanding and entreating at the same time.

“I have been in the Queen’s situation.” Confession tore its way out. “I have betrayed a man I loved.”

Silence again and his hand fell hastily away from my shoulder. I knew what he thought of men who loved men. Did he think that my solicitous nature, my politeness in his company, why - even my surrender in Umbar - had been spurred by some ulterior motive along those lines?

“I consider you a friend,” he said quietly - and I turned my face away reminded of a day when I had spoken those very words to Telpë. 

Pharazôn’s hand came to pat my shoulder. Pain flashed across his features as he returned to the situation and he continued tentatively, “Was the man you loved a blackguard as I am?”

“He was not,” I said forcefully, wrath consuming my senses at the very suggestion. “He was...he is a very honourable man.”

“What happened?” Pharazôn asked, with the unending curiosity that legends said he had inherited from Elros Tar-Minyatur.

The Prince had saved his father. I had saved the only soul that mattered to me. And the Prince and I had both embraced madness.

“It was a fool’s game, my King,” I said simply. “To reflect further on it is not my desire.”

 

Laurefindë had gouged my heart and left me no salve. Had he married her? I had fled to Mordor after that, distancing myself as much as I could. 

Telpë had been captured and brought to my stronghold. I treated him well. In fact, compared to what had been done on his kinsman, Telpë suffered no harm at my hands. He knew it.

“What do you intend to do with me?” he had asked one day when I sneaked into his chambers at night, hoping that he might be in repose.

“Idril waits in Umbar,” I said calmly.

Telpë’s eyes had widened then and he had not hesitated to rise from his chair and hasten to my side. 

“Mairon, you must kill me! Tell her that I attempted escape and was killed by the guards.”

I still do not know how I managed to meet his gaze when refusing blankly. He was - had been - the only friend I had. But he was not the one who had left a beating heart amidst these ashes. To save a sunbeam, I would sacrifice the starlight. 

“Try as it might, silver cannot outshine gold, can it?” Telpë had asked me quietly as we stood there suspended in time.

“Telpë, I-”

“You will let me use your forge. I will craft something for my daughter,” he hurried on, his face pale in the moonlight. “You will ensure that she receives it at the time she needs it. Do you hear me, Mairon?”

“Sauron - the abhorred,” I whispered. “That is what I am.”

“Oh, damn it all!” Telpë shouted. “As Mairon I knew you, and as Mairon I continue to know you. You are quite mad, but you are still Mairon.”

Before I could blink, he had crossed the distance between us and embraced me. He had always been a very tactile man. Perhaps it came of being the fussed over child of a large family. I had envied him that. Family, belonging and people who cared for him - he had all that. 

“Maitimo told me this would happen,” Telpë said as he clung to me. “He said that I would be sold as he sold you and I sold him.”

I had seen that horror in Formenos in the broken mind of the Prince long ago. I had wondered why he had not lost his will to live. Then I had come to know him better when he was strung to the cliffs. And after that I no longer wondered why he had survived. 

“You should have left with Arafinwë,” I told Telpë harshly. 

He did not belong here. Idril belonged here. I belonged here. Artanis and all those who had died before her belonged here. But not Telpë. 

“Arwen,” he said wistfully. “I ask nothing of you. But you will not let my shadow fall on my daughter.”

“I will not,” I vowed. 

He crafted a crown of gold and silver wrought in the shape of the leaves of Lothlorien - the land that had taken name from the woman he had loved.

 

Elrond buried his head in his hands. They were knocking on the door, he realised. 

“I am coming in!” Thranduil hollered a warning before picking the lock and swaggering in, Erestor in tow.

“What happened?” Erestor asked as he rushed to Elrond’s side and drew his chin up. Swiftly, before Elrond could attempt defence, Erestor had scooped the parchments from the desk and moved over to the window to read them with the aid of the faint dawn light.

“Sauron!” Erestor spat in barely suppressed wrath. 

Thranduil joined his friend and Elrond watched in absent fascination as they perused the letters. They had not learnt the past at Maglor’s knees. They had not seen the First Age. Elrond felt older then, and immeasurably weary. 

“Perhaps that will endear me to you,” Galadriel remarked as she walked in.

“It is highly unlikely,” Elrond muttered, drawing a chair for her. “Sit down and tell me about Lady Idril Celebrindal’s involvement in this fracas.”

“What is there to tell? She was as single-minded as you are when it came to these things.” Galadriel’s voice was laced by mild teasing. “You did give Isildur the Ring with nary a second thought.”

Thranduil and Erestor were heatedly discussing the scrolls. Elrond spared a moment to admire their profiles before turning to face Galadriel again.

“I did never thank you for your aid in rescuing Erestor during Eregion,” he told her.

“Perhaps I foresaw different uses for him in the future,” she replied.

He smiled at that and continued, “Perhaps you saw his father - your former intimate companion - in Erestor, just as Gil and I did.”

He had never seen her blushing and the sight caused a remarkable thawing of his dislike for her. She cast a quick glance to where Thranduil and Erestor were still immersed in discussion before meeting Elrond’s eyes.

“Elros told me,” he said amusedly, taking in her discomposure with incredulity. 

“You could have used that as leverage in our dealings. Threatened to tell Celeborn,” she muttered.

“I never cared for politics, Galadriel,” he said frankly. “And I have never traded a secret for personal gain.”

“Unlike me,” she remarked.

“Unlike you indeed,” he smiled. “But you have kept many secrets, Galadriel.” His eyes were once again cast upon Erestor. 

Galadriel gave a pensive nod. 

“War!” Celeborn cried out from the deck. “War rages ashore!”

Erestor and Thranduil rushed out of the door. Elrond was about to do the same when Galadriel’s thin fingers closed over his wrist. Their eyes met and he knew what she was asking of him.

“He would not have sworn the oath if he had not wanted to succour you in need,” she said firmly.

Elrond closed his eyes and his jaw clenched.

“Please.” Her voice faltered and his eyes shot open. “Please,” she said again, meeting his gaze with her turmoil-filled one. “Lives will be lost, yes. But I must ask it of you.” 

A horn blasted fury and she said, “Oromë hunts the last of us.”

 

Finarfin looked up at the star of Eärendil vanishing away with the dawn and a wistful smile crossed his features.

“Do you still indulge in stargazing?” His nephew enquired sarcastically.

Finarfin turned to face him and reflected that enduring Maglor’s sarcasm was a poor price indeed to pay for restoring the gleam in those dark eyes. It was only a sparkle, but Finarfin wanted it to kindle and spread. 

“I cannot,” said Maglor abruptly then. “You must lead, Arafinwë.”

There was respect in Maglor’s voice. And a wealth of self-doubt. It came with experience, Finarfin knew. Gone was the smugness of youth when Maglor had never bothered to acknowledge Finarfin’s greetings or admit that Finarfin might prove better at something than Maglor himself.

“I did not endure in Beleriand,” Finarfin said quietly. 

“I would not have,” Maglor said in a pained voice. “If not for my brother, I would not have.”

His brother. Finarfin could see in his mind’s eye the man who had stood on the raised dais of Tirion’s assembly to stir the courtiers with those blasphemous speeches that Finarfin and Indis had balked at. It was not Fëanor who had sought to earn the allegiance of the Noldor. Fëanor had never paid a care to matters as worldly and transient as the rule of their people. His life and his mind had always been devoted to his craft. 

“You can look at the sailing ship in the sky and rest assured that he is safe,” Maglor continued. “I am denied that, Arafinwë.”

Finarfin gripped the reins of his horse in a bid to suppress his astonishment. 

“You did not marry my child,” he said quietly.

“We parted by mutual agreement,” was the curt reply. “She met the Sinda and loved him enough to marry him though I did never understand why she seemed to think that he merited her. Artanis and I have always remained what we were: the closest of friends. We have never been estranged, Arafinwë.”

“Why then?” Finarfin demanded .

He had wondered long ago when tidings had reached Tirion of his daughter’s marriage. Melian had then affirmed those rumours. Perhaps, she had hinted, Galadriel had felt compelled to break away from their family. But Finarfin knew his child. She would enter a commitment as binding as marriage in order to break free. 

Then Hórëon’s bugle sounded from the head of their host. Finarfin cursed as he saw the white banners of the armies of Valinor began their march towards the rebels. 

 

 

“Red skies at dawn, sailors rejoice.”

Círdan nodded acknowledgement to Thranduil’s statement and smiled as a warm arm wound its way through his own.

“How did you do it?” Thranduil asked quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” Círdan turned to face his companion.

“How did you learn to live with the memories of a woman you could not have?” Thranduil rephrased his question.

Círdan drew a sharp breath, but rallied enough to remark, “So that was the name I called out when you were enthusiastically slaking your lust on my helpless body?”

“My dear Círdan!” Thranduil leant his head on the mariner’s shoulder and began threading his fingers through the long, flowing beard. “I did nothing to force you, in case it has slipped your fading memory.”

“You coerced me with that game, Ernil nîn,” Círdan pointed out peaceably, bringing his hand to Thranduil’s spine and wincing as he felt the knobs. “Say, after eating a good portion of my stores, why are you still in this condition?”

“Perhaps it has something to do with my nightly occupations.” Thranduil polished his voice with a trace of promise.

“You are the worst scamp I have had the misfortune to meet. That is saying something since I have had the invidious pleasure of knowing Elros.”

“Did you know him as you knew me?” 

“I have not known anyone as I have known you, Oropherion.” Círdan chuckled and shook his head at Thranduil’s whoop of triumph. 

“Give me your hand.” Thranduil did not wait for Círdan to obey. He dragged up Círdan’s left hand and clasped it with his own, interlacing their fingers together. 

“I must insist that you unhand me. Most compromising,” Círdan pointed out.

Thranduil drew up Círdan’s index finger and pointed at the stars being slowly veiled above. 

“Anoriel believed more in her Sylvan lore than in ours. They teach that the spirits of the dead go to the stars and linger there watching over us. The fiery become as red as Carnil. The loved become bright white. I did not believe her tales. Ada had taught me to believe only in what was proved. But after I lost him, I had to believe in something. To anchor myself as your ships do. So I believed in what she said.” 

His voice died into the silence and Círdan completed the next sentence.

“And you lost her when she panicked and threw herself into death’s embrace.”

“It could have been worse,” Thranduil said staunchly, though his voice belied the truth. “I would rather that she was dead than enduring what Galadriel and Aredhel did. Ada once told me that the greatest harm that could be perpetrated upon a man or a woman was the loss of choice. I had no choice but to let her go. Perhaps it was the same for you.”

“I had a choice,” Círdan said gently. “You must not compare my situation to yours, Ernil nîn. She was married. I respect marriage. I chose not to act on what I felt.”

“Is that why you have always helped her family?” Thranduil enquired. “You were fosterer to many of their scions.”

Círdan fixed his eyes on Eärendil’s ship before saying quietly, “When they returned, they hosted a great feast the likes of which had never been before. When she left, she had been the wife of a clan chieftain. When they came, they were princes and kings. Finrod the Beloved, Galadriel, Celebrimbor, Fingon, Maglor - I saw traces of Finwë in all of them as my friendship with them grew. ”

“And Míriel?”

Círdan smiled. “She was a remarkable woman. And among her descendants, only Maedhros inherited her traits.”

“He was mad according to what Celeborn says,” Thranduil pointed out. “But Ada liked him, I think.”

“He was not mad,” Círdan said thoughtfully, his right hand coming to his breast to feel the smoothness of the locket under his tunic. “When I saw him for the first time, he could barely stand, far less walk or dance. But he attended the feast, gracefully surrendered the crown to his uncle, let his cousins and brothers drag him around to perform introductions, danced with Fingon right before the whole gathering despite his clumsy balance and comported himself most admirably.”

“In short, he had you besotted at first sight,” Thranduil summed up cheekily. Círdan sniffed in disapproval but did not reply. 

“Ada would have done the same,” Thranduil continued after a while, his voice marred by brooding. “He would have held himself as bravely as Lord Maedhros did that day.”

“Prince Maedhros was fond of your father,” Círdan said. “He would often enquire as to Oropher’s wellbeing and activities whenever he chanced to visit me after Doriath.”

“Why, I wonder?” Thranduil murmured. 

Círdan did not tell him what years of introspection and pensive thoughts had gleaned. Maedhros had enquired first tentatively and later with barely concealed curiosity about Oropher’s mother. Círdan had not seen her taking the path to the west. He feared what might have befallen the contingent led by Celeborn’s father. But he had told none of his suspicions. In those years, courage was hard to come by and despair only an inch away. So he had kept his doubts to himself. 

Maedhros’s curiosity and barely suppressed rage whenever the subject of her non-consensual marriage to Oropher’s father had propped up stirred Círdan’s suspicions higher. But he did not ask. Maedhros was a man who preferred to keep his own counsel unless need dictated otherwise. Círdan trusted him. 

The armies from the West had arrived and Oropher’s relationship with Ingwë’s granddaughter had blossomed. Círdan had mentioned that in a letter to Maedhros, also hinting the union was not likely to be accepted by the woman’s family. Maedhros had directed Círdan to speak to the woman’s kinsmen. It had not helped. The woman had been dragged West after the war, leaving an infant Thranduil in Oropher’s pining arms. 

In the dawn of the Second Age, Círdan had been perusing some of the letters he had received from Maedhros during the twilight of the Prince’s life. Then he chanced to see one that made him flinch. At the time he had received the letter, so keen had he been to assure himself of his friend’s wellbeing that he had skipped over a sealed scroll nestled within the message sack. It was addressed to Ingwë. Inscribed on the outer curve of the scroll were a few lines charging Círdan to ensure that the message reached Ingwë. 

Círdan had sent it west. Ingwë had read Maedhros’s message. Atonement ensued and Círdan heard that Ingwë and his son had become estranged following the letter’s arrival in Valmar. Then began Ingwë’s correspondence with Círdan, imploring him to speak of what was happening in Greenwood under Oropher’s reign.

 

 

Maglor drove his horse between Hórëon and a Vanyarin soldier. Hórëon had lifted his sword, only to pause stricken as he realised what he was about to do. Maglor had no such compunctions as he took life.

 

The woman had escaped from an Easterling household where she had been kept as a slave. She was of noble lineage, Maglor knew instinctively. But there were no traces of nobility left on her now. Maglor was trying to discern how to approach her without causing her panic. The woman had stiffened, but did not look up from where she stood before him within a circle of his warriors.

“Brother, what have you there?” Maedhros had asked as he made his way through the throng to come and stand beside Maglor.

“A thrall,” Maglor murmured and he felt, rather than saw, the shudder pass through his brother’s body. He continued, “She needs a healer. I am trying to coerce her to give in to our care.”

Maedhros had gone to the woman then and stooped over to touch her forehead and ask, “Do you wish to live?”

Maglor turned his eyes away as the woman shook her head. The sword came slicing through the air and there was the wet squelch of steel conquering flesh. 

 

Hórëon turned his head away from the sight even as Maglor had done once. 

“To me!” Finarfin shouted as Oromë’s assault smote their frontlines. “To me!”

* * *


End file.
